


Who'd want me for a flatmate?

by Lothlorienne



Series: Drabble time [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I'm just enjoying the whole sort of platonic flatmate thing atm, will add more relationshippy/slashy things later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothlorienne/pseuds/Lothlorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles from John or Sherlock's POV, giving a brief impression of what having a relationship with the other is like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trivial Matters

‘Three.’  
Mrs. Hudson moves her piece three places and waits for John to ask her the question.  
‘Pink, pink, pink… ah.’ John chuckles briefly. ‘This is an interesting one! How many nose jobs has Michael Jackson had, as of 1991, according to the book Michael Jackson: The Magic and the Madness?’  
That doesn’t seem interesting at all to me. Why would he consider that an interesting question? Just useless trivia. Though seriously, what did I expect, having read the name of the game on the cardboard box. The two other participants laugh at this; Molly giggles, fingertips brushing her lips, while Lestrade has a more silent, yet amused snort of a laugh. John looks expectantly at mrs. Hudson as she frowns and slowly starts counting on her fingers. ‘Six,’ she decides after a short silence, and leans back, looking quite pleased with herself for knowing that.  
I have no idea whether that’s right or not, so I look at John.  
‘Unbelievable.’ He hands her a miniscule pink wedge before putting the dice in Molly’s outstretched hand. Please, I do more unbelievable things on a daily basis. ‘How do you even know this stuff?’ he smiles. ‘Mrs. Turner might or might not be a fan,’ she responds with a wink. ‘And we love us some gossip every now and then, dear.’  
I choose that moment to give yet another heavy sigh and make my feelings about the situation known. Everyone decides to politely ignore it. Molly has already moved her piece and is now looking at John expectantly.  
‘Browwwnnn… What Dickens character said: "Please, sir, I want some more"?’  
‘Oh, er… That’s Oliver Twist, right?’ Molly says, and takes a sip from her cup. Lestrade smiles, complimenting her on her cultural knowledge while offering a refill. ‘Correct,’ John confirms, while putting the card back on the bottom of the stack. Well Molly, congratulations on your expansive knowledge of useless information. You should consider going professional with this game thing.  
‘Now, Sherlock?’ I feel my heart clench. Oh god, why am I even doing this. This will be so humiliating. I hide my discomfort by dramatically rolling my eyes before grabbing the dice, rolling, moving the damn piece and then staring at my flatmate. ‘Question.’  
‘Curb your enthusiasm, mate,’ Lestrade snickers. I just glare at him. Molly gives him a poke in the ribs. Not what I would’ve done, but it will have to suffice for now. I look back at John, who has found a question for me.  
‘Shh, you’ll get this one for sure, Sherlock... How many colours are there in a rainbow?’  
There’s a sudden silence as everyone is suddenly looking at me. A silence that stretches on. I swallow. Get ready to give an answer that I don’t have yet. Must say something. My eyes settle on the man sitting on the opposite side of the table.  
‘G-get that smug grin off your face, Detective Inspector. You’re distracting me.’  
The smile only gets wider.  
‘I can’t help it, I’m already looking forward to whatever amusing answer you’ll give us this time.’  
‘I’m not saying anything.’  
Next to Lestrade, I see mrs. Hudson discreetly curl one pinkie while letting both her thumbs slide off the table. Seven? That can’t possibly be right.  
‘Er…’  
John raises his eyebrows, encouraging me to go on.  
‘All the colours?’  
Molly scratches her ear as Greg starts that annoying laughter again.  
‘No, but that’s the truth,’ I start to defend myself, ‘in a rainbow the complete colour spectrum becomes visible to the human eye, thus displaying every colour known! The dispersion – oh, forget it!’ I fling my still empty playing piece in Lestrade’s direction and manage to hit him in the face, but he keeps laughing regardless.  
‘The card says seven, Sherlock.’ John says apologetically.  
‘Then the card is wrong,’ I announce, before leaving the room. This game is too far below me to even bother anyway. Let those lower life forms have their fun, I have more important experiments to attend to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myeah, I imagine he would suck at this game.  
> The sad part is that there really are more than seven colours in a rainbow.


	2. Dirty Dishes

It’s been a long, tiresome day, and the streetlamps are already lit by the time I finally get home. When I enter the flat, I see Sherlock sitting motionless in the dark. It seems like he hasn’t moved an inch, sitting exactly where I left him this morning. I drop my coat and make my way to the kitchen – and yes, the gigantic pile of unwashed dishes is still waiting.  
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock.’  
‘…’  
‘I asked you to do ONE thing. Just one thing.’  
‘…’  
‘I work all day and then I come home to even more bloody household chores just because you can’t be bothered to get off your lazy arse for a minute and do something I’ve asked you in a perfectly polite – ’  
He still hasn’t moved.  
‘Are you even listening to me?’  
‘…’  
I quickly reach for one of my feet to remove a shoe, so I can throw it at him. I manage to hit him right in the chest and he startles enough to almost fall out of his seat. I hope every muscle and joint protests the sudden movement after sitting still for all those hours.  
He blinks, looking dazed, before he sees me.  
‘Hello, John.’  
He looks around the flat before stating the obvious.  
‘It is dark.’  
I try to keep my voice even as I respond. ‘Yes, I know it is. An entire day has passed since we last spoke.’  
‘Really? Interesting.’ He steeples his fingers while stretching his legs. ‘No case then, I suppose. You know, I was rather hoping Lestrade would come by today. It’s been a while since he last consulted me, and I remember reading this article in the newspaper the other day –’  
‘I do have a case for you.’ I can’t help gritting my teeth.  
‘Oh.’  
‘It’s the mystery of why the fuck aren’t the dishes done yet.’  
He looks at me for a moment, expression blank. ‘Because you didn’t do them?’  
It barely takes me any time at all to throw the other shoe, but he still manages to grab a pillow and block the projectile before it can hit him in the face.  
‘If you would be so kind as to stop throwing things at me.’  
My eyes are already scanning the room for suited objects.  
He sighs. ‘I can see where this will lead to.’ Then he reaches behind the chair he’s occupying to retrieve his violin. Unbelievable. Not this again.  
‘Don’t you dare, Sherlock,’ I warn him.  
I can see the corners of his mouth turn upwards before he gets the instrument in its proper playing position.  
‘You are not –’  
The rest of my sentence gets interrupted as he starts playing the Flight of the Bumblebee.  
‘Hey! I am talking to – ’  
He keeps playing the different notes in a fast tempo as I try to make myself heard.  
‘Just the dishes, I – oh, are you quite done now?’  
He plucks a few strings before resuming the previous tune.  
‘Oh COME ON.’  
It only takes him a minute to finish the song. Then he looks up, eyeing me suspiciously, one eyebrow raised. As soon as I open my mouth to resume my ranting, he starts from the beginning.

I end up chasing him through the flat (one of us yelling profanities, the other laughing maniacally) while mrs. Hudson sneaks up to take care of the dishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how he deals with a problem imo. Because violin. And something about bees. Shhh you can't beat my logic.  
> Also, one minute might be a world record... Not that Holmes would care about something like that.


	3. Morning Activities

I come downstairs and hear the low chuckling. A first indication that something terrible is happening, for Holmes is more often pleased with some wacky experiment then say, by watching some amusing television programme. So it is with caution that I enter the kitchen.  
Immediately I spot the skinny, dressing gown-clad figure. We are standing in a perfect L-shape: me, Sherlock, and the kitchen window, wich is currently covered in a thin layer of red goo. I can feel my stomach churn as one particularly big chunk starts to slide downwards.  
‘Sh-Sherlock…’ I stammer, ‘are those – human remains?’  
He turns around, looking vaguely surprised. I try to keep my face blank and my breathing even. I’m not doing a very good job, though.  
‘Don’t be ridiculous, John.’ He holds up one hand, cradling a small pile of bright red fruit. ’These are strawberries.’  
‘Oh thank God.’  
I lean forward and resume my breathing. Well, you never know, living with a madman and his experiments.  
‘I find this activity quite liberating, actually,’ he comments dryly, and two more strawberries hit the kitchen window with a small thud, the impact making an interesting pattern before the biggest parts start to slide down. I dare not look at the mess on the floor. I definitely will not be the one cleaning that up.  
‘Would you care to try?’  
He already grabs a hold of me to get me in a better throwing position, neatly facing the window. He then drops the biggest strawberry in my hand and I absently take note of the pleasant patting sound it makes by falling this meagre distance. The piece of fruit feels light. The skin is still firm, but I know strawberries contain a certain amount of water. I discover I am subconsciously busying my mind already with calculating the pattern my throw would add to the window.  
Still not completely sure of what I’m supposed to do in this situation, I take a side glance at Holmes. It’s good to see those eyes glistening, bright and lively, like he’s forgotten about all the dark thoughts that seem to haunt that brilliant mind every now and then. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him this contented.  
‘What the heck,’ I say, grinning, and hurl my first strawberry.

The window is licked clean afterwards and Sherlock insists on keeping the now gruel-like substance to do some experiments with glucose and fructose. At least this experiment requires him to keep the strawberry mush in the fridge, which means the pile on the floor gets cleaned up without me insisting.

When Sarah comes by later that evening it seems like nothing has happened. I don’t tell her about the strawberry-and-chocolate-fondue plan I had originally devised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously thought about throwing strawberries for research. Ate them instead, thinking YouTube would provide me the information necessary. Turns out a clip from Across The Universe was the most usable video for this particular purpose.


	4. The Curious Incident of the Book in the Day-Time

I can hear the hesitation. The rhythm of footsteps stutters for only a brief moment before he makes his way into the living room. It takes him a while, but then I hear the rustling of the newspaper and know exactly when John’s going to make a comment. Know when to answer the question he hasn’t asked yet.  
‘Quite comfortable, thank you for your concern.’  
I open my eyes to see his face. The analysis is a bit harder upside-down, but I manage. John is frowning, but amused when he makes a comment about his own less-than perfect flexibility.  
‘Hmm,’ is my response.  
I uncross my legs to get more leverage control before stretching my arms and putting my palms flat on the rug.  
‘It’s like all the knowledge sinks down to my brain this way.’  
Absolute nonsense, of course, but it makes him laugh.  
‘You’re strange.’  
‘I know.’  
I get a new idea and try to grab my violin, but it’s out of reach. Ugh, fine, whatever. I close my eyes again.  
‘Feeling bored?’  
‘Hmm.’  
‘You could read that book I told you about.’  
‘Hmm.’  
I can hear him get up and move some stuff around on the table before he finds the thing. The paperback makes enough sound to warn me and even without looking I manage to catch it before I get hit in the chest. I slowly turn it in my hands to have a decent look. Then I point at the title.  
‘Oh, we’ve had one of these ourselves, haven’t we?’  
‘The Baskerville thing?’ He chuckles. ‘This isn’t quite as complicated, I’m afraid.’  
‘Yes, well, the cover kind of gives it all away, doesn’t it.’  
Even if you’d somehow miss the giant letters, the childish drawing of the dog lying on its back with a pitchfork buried in its stomach should make clear what the book’s about.  
‘Just give it a chance. You might like this.’  
I get the feeling that if I’d be sitting upright, John would have given me a pat on the head. I end up with some awkward knee-petting instead.  
‘I’m off to work now. You give it a try, yeah?’  
‘Hmm.’ I start leafing through the book. Prime numbers. Lots of drawings. Shouldn’t take me too long to finish. By the time he’s finally out the door and I can read in peace and quiet I’ve already got four theories about the plot.

It’s been a long shift and I can feel it in every muscle as I close the front door behind me. I start rolling my head from side to side and move my shoulders. Briefly think about Sherlock this morning – bending backwards like that might benefit me as well.  
I find him in the sofa, still the wrong way up. The empty cup on the table indicates he has at least moved once. He is occupying the seat the farthest from the doorway, so there is still plenty of space left on his right side for me to have a go at the position. After one moment of discomfort, I can feel the vertebrae pop back into place one by one, and I can’t keep back a satisfied groan. After that, nothing but silence. I look over to Sherlock and for a moment I wonder if he might have fallen asleep in this position, but then he starts to talk.  
‘I don’t have autism or anything.’  
‘Hmm?’  
He opens his eyes, but looks straight ahead.  
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. The kid in the book, he’s a bit like me, but I’m nothing like him. I’m just a bit eccentric sometimes.’  
‘Okay.’  
Part of me wants to contradict him immediately. After all, during our first case together he had already labelled himself a ‘high-functioning sociopath’, a title that only got confirmed over time. Surely there must be a more medical term for this personality trait. But I take a moment to think about his words and what he is trying to say. What he is trying to keep me from saying. So my response is simply:  
‘Spaghetti?’  
‘Okay.’  
I start to shift. How do I get off the sofa in a more or less graceful way…  
‘John?’  
I look back. I can see his left hand is now hovering over his torso, the palm facing me and fingers spread. Without giving it a second thought, I reach out and let our fingers meet. The gesture is enough to make him smile a bit before I retrieve my hand again.  
‘Parmesan cheese?’ I suggest.  
‘Actually, I kind of – put the different kinds of grated cheese together. We could use that.’  
‘Should be interesting.’  
‘Yes, my thoughts exactly. Try not to fall on your head.’  
‘I’ve had army training, you know,’ I mumble, and manage to more or less roll out of the sofa, onto my feet. After a small bow I make my way to the kitchen to cook the pasta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't completely obvious: the book he is reading is The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.
> 
> To those who don't understand the meaning of this gesture: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_XAbmsn53OeY/Swxta-3gE_I/AAAAAAAAADA/VJUiW3qYYzc/s1600/2661_151155695130_644845130_6261753_3341183_n.jpg
> 
> Also, let's just ignore the fact that this book had numerous references to the Sherlock Holmes stories.


	5. Tobacco Tea

‘Sherlock?’  
‘Living room,’ I answer from the sofa.  
I can hear him coming down the stairs, through the open door. ‘What’s that smell? Something burning?’  
I hold up my hand so he can see the cigarette. It’s self-rolled and not perfectly cylindrical, but should still be identifiable. Couldn’t be bothered to go out and buy some decent material, so I’ve rummaged through John’s coat in search of the thinnest restaurant bill instead. It’s been a while since I’ve tasted an unfiltered cigarette, and I savour the extra-smokey taste. Oh he’s tutting now, very helpful.  
‘I thought patches were your thing.’  
‘Experiment.’  
‘Right. Say, that isn’t –‘  
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’  
‘… So you’re not smoking pot.’  
‘No.’  
‘Okay then.’  
I take a long drag and hold it as John goes into the kitchen for his morning cuppa – the water should still be warm enough. I breathe the smoke out through my nose before continuing.  
‘I’m smoking tea.’  
‘Sorry, did you say something?’  
‘Hmm, I asked you to bring me my tea. Left my mug in the kitchen.’  
There’s a short silence. I bet he’s sniffing it.  
‘Smells good. What is it?’  
I smile and answer it’s herbal tea, my voice perfectly inconspicuous.  
‘Hmm. I feel more like having Earl Grey.’  
Snicker. Me too. I take another drag. It tastes like a usual fag, mostly. Perhaps I should use a filter next time, then it might taste more like the tea blend I used. I finish it anyway.  
‘There you go.’ John puts my mug on the table next to me.  
‘Lovely.’ Part two of the experiment. It looks like regular tea, smells like regular tea. I take a tentative sip, it even tastes like – no, wait. I smack my lips before taking a second sip. I’ve added some sugar before letting it all brew and frankly this tea might be the best I’ve ever had – except for that tingling sensation I’m getting in the back of my throat. It’s kind of numbing… I stick a finger in my mouth to prod the soft palate, but there seems to be no swelling. Should I continue drinking this –  
That’s when I notice John is staring at me.  
‘What?’ I ask him – though it sounds a bit more like ‘hua’.  
‘What are you doing.’  
I pull my finger out again. ‘Nothing.’  
Eyes narrowing. Oooh, he’s figuring it out.  
‘What kind of herbal tea did you say that was?’  
Short silence.  
‘I didn’t.’  
He gets up and inches closer. Prowling now, are we.  
‘Let me have a taste.’  
I can feel the corners of my mouth turn upwards. ‘Okay. Come and get it.’  
But before he can get a decent hold on the mug, I let go and the thing goes tumbling down. Unless he’s planning on sucking the beverage from the carpet, there’s no way he’ll get a taste.  
‘Oops.’  
He sighs. ‘Fine. Whatever. You just – clean that up, yeah.’  
‘Sure, John, sure. Later.’  
He turns away and I light up a new cigarette, with a sweeter kind of Jasmine tea this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know by now that I take my research way too seriously.  
> So yes, I rolled my own cigarette with a bill and some Earl Grey.  
> Then I stole my sister's shag and used it to make tea. Tastes pretty good, though you really do get that prickling sensation.


	6. Is It A Good Idea To Microwave This?

The living room is empty. I shed my jacket and move to lie down on the sofa. Give my leg some rest. With my nose buried in one of the pillows, I simply stay still for a while. I deserve my bit of rest.  
I am surprised I don't notice the low hum of the microwave earlier. In fact, I don't detect anything suspicous until I smell something that can't possibly be a microwave dinner.  
So I turn my head and peer in the general direction of the kitchen.  
Darkened.  
Though I do see flashes of orange, pink and blue.  
'SHERLOCK.'  
I scramble to my feet and hurry into the kitchen. He's crouched in front of the microwave, peering at the bright flashes while taking notes. He doesn't pay any attention to me until I turn the electrical apppliance off.  
'Hey!'  
I pull the small door open and see... a lightbulb.  
'What the hell are you even - ugh, that smells like burnt, uuuurgh.'  
I turn away to open the small kitchen window, and the one in the hallway too. It's not until I re-enter the kitchen when I notice the collection of random objects on the table: a cd that somehow looks both cracked and solid, a deformed calculator, a pile of white ash that looks most like a thin, pale worm, a heap of molded plastic - whatever it was, I hope it wasn't mine, a huge chunk of soap, half a dozen glowsticks that look either bent or half-exploded, some with the liquid still oozing out, a plate of multicoloured goo, and - is that my toothbrush?  
With a sigh, I turn around again.  
'Do I even want to see the state of that microwave?'  
He's trying to pull off the puppy look. Not going to work.  
'Probably not, no.'  
Then his features light up.  
'Perhaps if I put in some lemons, or a tube of toothpaste -'  
'NO.'  
Before he gets the chance to suggest another alternative, I make my way over to one of the cabinets to retrieve something.  
'All-purpose cleaner. That should do the trick.'  
'But Joooooohn.'  
'I said no. I know for a fact this has nothing to do with a case. If you're bored, try knitting, or something else that doesn't harm our property. I'd rather have my food non-poisonous, thank you very much.'  
He's eyeing the still intact objects on the kitchen table. His face becomes much easier to read when he's all excited about an experiment: he doesn't need to tell me anything for me to know what's going on inside his head. So I see no objection whatsoever to grabbing one of the items - by coincidence a still slightly smouldering teddy bear - and hit him over the head a few times.  
'I SAID NO.'  
'FINE. FINE. Stop hitting me!'  
'Oh, don't be a baby. It's only lukewarm.' But I toss the bear back on the pile of microwave experiments. 'Now, clean.'  
He keeps a steady gaze fixed on me while slipping his hand back in the microwave. Really? Those tricks don't work on me. I know what he's planning. Sure enough, when the hand is retrieved, three fingers are covered in red goo.  
'Don't you dare,' I warn him, switching to my authorative army voice.  
He huffs before wiping it off - whatever it is - on his trousers.  
'And now clean up the mess you've made.'  
  
The fact that he does exactly that is a small victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weirdest thing I've ever microwaved is food. A hot coke tastes pretty good, actually.
> 
> Good thing we have the Internet. A cd in the microwave is one of the prettiest things in a microwave ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions are, and always will be welcome, as is any kind of response.


End file.
